Reaver
by loveliness decays
Summary: For he knows that as long as he lives, never will he be anyone but Reaver again. AU; what happened with Reaver and Oakvale. Reaver/OC


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Fable. I own a copy of the game - two, in fact - but I could only wish I owned the rights to it.

**A.N:** I wrote this not too long ago on another site. It occurred to me that I could upload it on fanfiction... so here it is. It's a bit confusing, with all the "he"s, but it was basically inspired by Reaver's diary entries and the mention of "her."

Reaver  
He remembers him, the pompous young adult who desired the touch of immortality. The egotistical young man who idolized the Hero of Oakvale, the brother to Theresa. Him, the young man shooting at dummies in the courtyard, even after it fell in the shroud of night. Him, the young man who occasionally looked past the far end of his nose, beyond his own vanity.

He remembers her, fair and smiling. He remembers her blonde hair, ending in a crescent at her pale elbows. He remembers the alabaster brow, eyebrows thin and light brown. He remembers the graceful arches of her dainty feet, and the soft, heavenly recesses of her voice, gentler at every crook. He remembers her lavender perfume, and the weight of her presence like scent from a flower.

He remembers this, and misses her gentle, deliberate touch, the waft of a falling feather, a caress against his skin.

He remembers the night the Shadow Court came to him, the messenger like a nymph in water, the faint shadow bolting up the paved path. He remembers his foolishness, committing his soul and loyalties to an unknown third party... then Oakvale fell under the dark shadow of night forever.

Slowly, the man in his memory follows the route he has taken a dozen times, spotting the scenic little house tucked away in the woods instantly. The door is half open, half open just as he would have found it in a demonic dream sequence.

And the screams. Oh god, the screams. Her screams that pierce the air were the highest among them, a painful cosmic joke that played on his carelessness. Her voice quiets after its first outburst of sorrow and rage, and he can only assume the bite of a blade had silenced her.

It takes an eternity for the door to drift open, dancing moonlight spilled on the shining wooden floorboards. He remembers his heart beating so loudly in his ears the screams of the other villagers were non-existent for that one aeon, and everything else gone but for the bone-dry taste in his mouth…

And his thoughts, running faster than a bolt of Will, and yet still blank…

The image burns itself into his mind. The fragile, slender form of his lover and the blossom of red that stains her corset, gushing ribbons of crimson onto the floorboards, staining them forever…

He feels a part of himself die inside - the part of himself nourished by the sunshine fields, his hopes, her indulgent smiles, and their love, stripping away the mortal until there was nothing else left but his empty shell. He does not know who the young man mourns more: the loss of her or the loss of her extravagant beauty. He thinks the young man may have felt a bit of the latter, but more of the former.

But he is not he; he is _Reaver_. That man he thinks of now wilted away like a dead flower an age and a day ago, died with the rest of the Oakvale in the massacre he, like a fool, brought upon it. He is no one to judge this young man, even if he - Reaver, not the man - possesses his memories and experiences.

_I am not he…_ he writes in his diary. His feather quill lies motionless a moment before it touches the paper again. _I am Reaver._

The plain words sit on the page, unconvincing. He cannot even tell himself he is not this man. His lips set into a thin, hard line, and he calls for wine.

_It is ironic,_ Reaver ponders bitterly as the wine is poured. _The young man sold his soul as to not experience the pains of mortality. He wished for his ephemeral beauty to stay forever, to never experience the pain of death. And yet the young man felt a greater pain than one of death when he saw her dead body lying on the floor, felt a haunting guilt and longing for what he had bartered…_

He drowns his recurring dreams. He drowns it all, the young man's recurring guilt, the young man's downfall, his own anguished thoughts. He drowns it all away… drowns it all away in his goblets of wine, in his luxury, in his vanity, in his wealth. And he can reassure himself that he is not this young man, that he never was. Never will he die, never will he age, and never will his heart be bound to another.

But at the end of the day, he knows. He knows that he was this young man - never will any of his assurances delude himself into the illusion of denial. For he knows that as long as he lives, never will he be anyone but Reaver again.


End file.
